In the eve of the twentieth century, on a dirty bench at a bus stop, a young man waited for the bus. He wasn't at all what you would call remarkable. He was of average height, average weight, with dark hair and grey eyes.
But what was remarkable about this man was his function, his essence, the reason for his existence. He was Death...
He was scratching a series of symbols into a black, leather-bound notebook. The symbols weren't names, but were similar in function. It was the work he had done so far that day... An old lady and her cat. A strange one... A drunk driver, the president of a small country... Bill and Marry and Joe and Elizabeth and Sprinkles and Joshua and Benjamin... But words in that notebook signified more than just names or descriptions of their lives. One could say that He was scratching their essences, to stay, if not anywhere else, than in this little black notebook that never had a lack of empty spaces for a new name...
To be continued.
He was scratching a series of symbols into a black, leather-bound notebook. The symbols weren't names, but were similar in function. It was the work he had done so far that day... An old lady and her cat. A strange one... A drunk driver, the president of a small country... Bill and Marry and Joe and Elizabeth and Sprinkles and Joshua and Benjamin... But words in that notebook signified more than just names or descriptions of their lives. One could say that He was scratching their essences, to stay, if not anywhere else, than in this little black notebook that never had a lack of empty spaces for a new name...
To be continued.
